These little angels put on a show for the local Mifflin School parents, relatives, and friends in the Mansfield area. Over 100 people showed up. This is the first Christmas program featuring the kindergarten students. Lucy and Wes attended because Nathan (third from right, top row) was in the program. His brother Nolan also came with us.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Visit from Elisabeth
Every time Nolan sees this video, he insists that she is his girlfriend. Elisabeth visited with us recently in October 2008. Nolan is three years old.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Thanksgiving Day
Thanksgiving Day, November 27, was a day to give thanks. It was a beautiful sunny day.
Lucy and I were invited by her niece Miriam and husband Irvin to their house for a nice feast of turkey and all the trimmings. Lucy brought her homemade pecan pie and I brought my homemade cranberry sauce. The cranberry recipe consisted of two packs of cranberries, one peeled orange, and 1-1/2 cups of sugar. I ground up the cranberries, orange juice and pulp. Since the recipe was no longer on the package I didn't remember the exact amount of ingredients so I mixed in about 3/4 cup of sugar and put it in two pint jars. Later, while I was watching the news my mind went idly to what I did earlier and realized that I didn't put enough sugar in it. I recalled the two jars, dumped the cranberry sauce into a bowl and added another 3/4 cup of sugar. Whew! Saved by a little dose of inspiration.
The next time I make cranberry sauce, I'll try brown sugar instead. There are other recipes where you cook the cranberries. I haven't had cooked cranberry sauce for years. I just grind up the raw cranberries, put in an orange and sugar, put it in jars and refrigerate.
The following day would have been Iva Hackman's birthday (my Mom). She would have been 87 years old. She passed away in 2006. God bless you Mom.
Lucy and I were invited by her niece Miriam and husband Irvin to their house for a nice feast of turkey and all the trimmings. Lucy brought her homemade pecan pie and I brought my homemade cranberry sauce. The cranberry recipe consisted of two packs of cranberries, one peeled orange, and 1-1/2 cups of sugar. I ground up the cranberries, orange juice and pulp. Since the recipe was no longer on the package I didn't remember the exact amount of ingredients so I mixed in about 3/4 cup of sugar and put it in two pint jars. Later, while I was watching the news my mind went idly to what I did earlier and realized that I didn't put enough sugar in it. I recalled the two jars, dumped the cranberry sauce into a bowl and added another 3/4 cup of sugar. Whew! Saved by a little dose of inspiration.
The next time I make cranberry sauce, I'll try brown sugar instead. There are other recipes where you cook the cranberries. I haven't had cooked cranberry sauce for years. I just grind up the raw cranberries, put in an orange and sugar, put it in jars and refrigerate.
The following day would have been Iva Hackman's birthday (my Mom). She would have been 87 years old. She passed away in 2006. God bless you Mom.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Fix up time
Then there were signs of the roof beginning to leak. The house was only 20 years old, but how long do roofs last?Finances were short to satisfy another expense so we waited, and wondered. Insurance would not pay for patches. If there was a single event that created the problem, they would get involved.
But the answer came on September 14, 2008. Hurricane Ike made its presence strongly felt like the big bad wolf that it was. It huffed and puffed and made mincemeat of the roof. I took a couple pictures while the wind was blowing. Nothing else was touched. I called insurance the next day.
The insurance agent told me they do not go out to make estimates. We would have to get our own. I left it in Jason's capable hands and he found some estimates and I faxed them. The weather after that Sunday storm was admirable but how long will it last until rains come? Jason put plastic that was available over part of the roof.
A few days later a couple of insurance adjusters came to check it out. They saw the plastic on the roof but I told them I had taken pictures so I went down to my office and made hard copies of a couple pictures and they were good enough to be used to evidence.
The estimates were to cover the damage over half the whole building. When the insurance adjuster climbed onto the roof, he said we should have the whole roof done, down to the boards. He would add enough to cover the cost, based on the estimate submitted, and see if insurance would agree.
The damaged part of the whole building was on the two-story side. Lucy and I live in the one-story side. There was evidence of a leak beginning but we were relatively dry on our side of the house. Still, the adjuster commented that there were a couple of different types of shingles and it would be better if the whole roof was done at the same time. He would try to rush the estimate but it could take up to 10 days. 10 days! It could rain by then. There were still parts of the roof at the mercy of the elements. In fact, Lucy commented that if we got rain from the south, the plastic wouldn't be very effective.
I went to a men's fellowship seminar at Berean Baptist one evening. It was dark when I returned. Soon the rain started. Uh-oh! The roof! I tried to convince myself that everything was OK. God is in His heaven and all is right with the world. But the feeling of despair was beginning to manifest and I didn't sleep well all night. I had a mind to let Jason know but I mentally argued the point that I'm sure he heard the rain more than I did, and if he's not worried, why should I be?
The next morning I woke up, after a fitful short night's sleep. I commented to Lucy that it rained but what is happening to the roof? Her response, although irritated, was soothing to my ears. "Oh, Jason put on plastic last night."
A couple of days later the check came, for the full amount suggested by the insurance adjuster. I put it in the bank and told Jason to get the roofers working, we're in business. He would have liked to help out but he had a job himself and he got a couple of good roofers to work for several days. It was a blessing all around.
Lucy, being former Amish, suggested that it would be nice to have a frolic to get the roof done. A frolic in the Amish culture is a gathering of a group of people to work on the project at hand. As it was, however, a couple of ex-Amish roofers worked on the roof for a few days, tearing off the shingles and matting, and replacing it all. We watched their progress and I took pictures.
Why do we worry sometimes? Maybe it's because we don't exercise our faith enough. We do what we can but when we believe in something a little beyond the practical, often things happen that go beyond what we may expect. This was an answer to our desires and we thank God for it all.
Of course, we weren't the only ones to have damage. Trees went down at many places, buildings were damaged by falling trees, as well as cars. Roofs were blown off. The whole state of Ohio experienced the fierce wind which at times reached hurricane strength in some areas. It may have been a record. We don't get the full brunt of hurricanes around here, usually the rain. But there was no rain with this wind storm until a few fine splatters toward the end. It was an unusual storm for this part of Ohio; and it came all the way from the Gulf Coast and beyond.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Keys to music
Sometimes you may get the inclination to let the piano keys create their own inventions. After all, they have the tone, the rhythm that you supply, and the practical need to offer something new, however simple or complex. It comes from imagination.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Midwest Trips
This is from a letter I wrote in early December 1991. It was to a penfriend who is a retired school teacher who is now almost 81 years old in 2008. Writing to him has induced me to write more eloquently, or better than just scribbling out a few thoughts. But, practice makes perfect, hopefully.
Thanksgiving Day came and went and I'm stuffed. I had two turkey dinners in one day. I ate a bit frugally at the first meal at my brother's house, then in the evening I went to visit my cousins in Lancaster and Lebanon counties for the weekend. My cousin Kathryn and her husband, who own a pretzel bakery, drove a Mennonite family to Florida to pck up a flight from Miami to Paraguay so they weren't home yet on Thanksgiving Day for the big feed. So their kids made the supper. Well, they weren't kids. The oldest is 26 years old and the youngest is 19; three boys and three girls. But that doesn't stop them from being kids once in awhile, especially the boys--young me, I should say.
Yes, we had the traditional turkey, with filling, corn, mashed potatoes, and an assortment of other delectables. And a couple of the fellows just had smother their plateful of vittles with ketchup.
I often stay with my cousin Warren at his home in a small rural community of Heidelberg, PA, and I visit Martin's Pretzel Bakery in Akron, Lancaster County quite often, owned and operated by Clarence and Kathryn Martin. Kathryn is Warren's sister. There is also a Martin's Pretzel Bakery in upstate New York owned by Lloyd and Maryann Martin. Kathryn and Maryann are sisters. Clarence and Lloyd are brothers.
Warren and I sometimes make plans to travel over the holidays and we were tossing around the idea of visiting his sister and family in Memphis, Missouri, a brother in Woodstock, Illinois, or another sister near Watertown, New York on this Thanksgiving weekend. But those plans didn't work out.
Last year we did make the trip over Thanksgiving. Neither of us can afford to take off on vacations. I need to pinch my pennies and Warren runs an asphalt paving business which keeps him busy, even into the Fall. The reason we travel so well together is because I love to drive and he and I like to visit his folks. They're my double cousins; their father and my father were brothers, their mother and my mother were sisters. Their mother died in 1951.
The Midwest is a great place to travel. The interstates take you pretty quickly to any location, except that we get off the interstate to travel about 200 miles into Keokuk, Iowa; then a couple miles to the Missouri border, and another 50 miles or so to Memphis. We've made the trip several times.
We travel through Pennsylvania, West Virginia, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Iowa and Missouri; and last year we went to Wisconsin, all in five days.
I like to visit with them. They are Mennonite people who exist as a practical society.
I enjoyed watching the children at the Thanksgiving dinner we had at cousin Florence's in Missouri. She has 24 grandchildren, and many of them were at the get-together. Afterwards, the women cleaned up the kitchen and the men retired to the sitting room where we spent all evening conversing with each other. No radio, no TV. It is the kind of rapport I like to have with people, without distractions.
The only minor distractions were the children who were playing nearby. But it was tolerated, for children must be children while they're children. Siblings and their cousins were playing together in harmony, most of the time. One of the boys, five-year-old Calvin, one of the oldest children there, was particularly rambunctious and running around with his playmates. He is hyperactive and once in awhile his father would hold him still just to quiet him down. One time he ran by me, patted me on the knee and muttered something I didn't catch, but Warren burst into laughter. "What's so funny?" I asked. Calvin had said I was a "nice old man." I may seem old to him but the gesture gave me a sense of camaraderie with these kids.
We spent only one day in Missouri and then we headed for Wisconsin, traveling all night. I like to travel at night. Where the clear sky is darkest the whole universe is awash with stars. I even spotted a couple of meteorites along the way.
By early morning we arrived at Colby, Wisconsin to visit another one of Florence's sons and his family. He has three children who were a little timid with us, until Warren spoke to them in Pennsylvania Dutch. Then they were more open to us.
About 8 years previously, Warren and I had visited another family, the Aaron Hoovers, who also live in Colby, Wisconsin. I called up Aaron to let him know we were in the area again. He insisted we come on over, so Warren and I had a pleasant afternoon visit which turned into an overnight stayover.
Aaron's family had multiplied from two children to six. The baby boy we saw eight years ago was an energetic eight-year-old who could do the work of a boy almost twice his age. They too speak Pennsylvania Dutch. My own parents speak the language but they never taught us so I'm not fluent in the language.
At milking time the children helped their father with the chores, 11-year-old Mabel, eight-year-old Martin, six-year-old Harvey, four-year-old Aaron. Even two-year-old Martha tagged along. They were busy gathering around Warren as they talked to him in mostly Dutch and I felt a little left out...until little Aaron came over to me and said, "Wid du de pony tsagooka? (Do you want to look at the pony?). I understood that, and he led me over to the horse stall where a horse stood. He made some other comments which I didn't understand. The other children came over and started talking to me. When they realized I didn't understand much of what they said, they all switched to English and, spotting my camera, insisted I take pictures--of a bale of hay, a colt, the horse, the heifers, and they themselves hammed it up in front of the camera. Martin was keeping count of the pictures I was taking, since he learned that I would send the pictures to them after they were developed. Earlier, they had shown me a photo album where I spotted pictures I took there eight years before.
They were a delight to entertain. They were easily amused. They don't have a radio or TV to play havoc on their fertile minds. They may be in a relatively closed society, but they weren't missing anything important. Their education is limited to an eighth grade education but that doesn't often stop them from learning a trade which is advanced beyond that. They learn from their parents, aunts, uncles, and cousins.
In addition to the farmwork, Aaron Sr. makes maple syrup in the Spring from the many maple trees on his farm, which he cooks down to 2% thicker than standard maple syrup, he said. On our first visit (where I had met him for the first time), and Warren the second time--Warren had his two sons, Steve and Greg, along at that time) he had given Warren and me each a pint of maple syrup "because we enjoyed your visit so much." They refused any monetary compensation for our visit. "We're just glad to have you stop in," they said.
Some more has come to mind about that memorable first trip eight years before:
It was my first trip to Illinois. We visited my cousin John (Warren's brother). We then intended to head southwest to Missouri to visit his sister Florence. It was August and the weather was balmy. I dressed in summer clothes and we were off on a nice long trip. Steve and Greg were also along. (In case you were wondering, Warren raised his two sons alone since they were three or four years old.)
Before I left, our Aunt Lydia (my Dad's sister) asked if we would look up Sim (Simon) Landis, her brother-in-law, while we were in Illinois. They live in Eau Claire, Wisconsin. Woodstock, Illinois is only a few miles from Wisconsin.
So, while in Woodstock, we were ready to retire for the night, Warren and I made plans for the next leg of the trip for the next day: to Missouri or to Wisconsin? We found that Eau Claire was not just over the border, but almost 200 miles away. It was either Missouri or Wisconsin; not both places.
The decision was made when Warren mentioned that he knew a family somewhere halfway to Eau Claire. They are Wenger Mennonites, originally from Lancaster County, PA. They are very hospitable and would take us in overnight if we needed a place to stay. If they couldn't accommodate us, another member of the community could.
So we left for Wisconsin the next day. It took a number of hours to drive to Colby, Wisconsin, and I studied the countryside as we traveled along, noting how straight the roads ran. When we came into town, Warren called up Aaron Hoover. Although Aaron had met him for the first time the year before, he knew Warren's voice right away. He told us how to find his farm.
Aaron and Edna had two children, Mabel and Martin. He showed us the maple syrup cookers. We visited his brothers and sisters, and parents, riding in our car, since they drive only horse and buggy. Steve and Greg, ages 10 and 12, had a great time. In the evening of the second day, they wanted a chance to ride in a horse-pulled wagon. We got our chance when a neighboring farmer needed help unloading a couple wagon loads of hay bales. He had heard about all the potential help visiting at the Hoover place.
Aaron hooked up the horse and wagon and we were off. He told me to sit up beside him. As we traveled, he demonstrated his "cruise control". As the horse trotted along, he gave a barely perceptible click with his tongue and the horse trotted faster; another click and the horse went faster yet. Another one, and faster yet. Then a slight tug on the reins and the horse slowed down again.
Because the horse often travels that way, Aaron didn't need to pull on the reins to turn right, and left into the lane, "automatic drive". If he had wanted to go straight he would tug gently on the opposite side rein to keep the horse from turning. The horse was cheaper to run than a car, he said. He eats what the cows eat and the cost of shoes is about $25 a year. I was convinced of the practical nature of their lifestyle.
The neighbor had a number of young children who were too young to carry bales of hay, but with the four of us, plus the neighbor himself, we had the couple of wagonloads done in short order. The evening being so clear, nice and cool, the Mrs. brought out the potato salad, pretzels, potato chips, and ice cream, and thereby made new friends. We all enjoyed it immensely.
We stayed the night again, and the next morning there was frost on the ground. It was 30 degrees, which was awful early in the season. I had my camera along and I just needed to get a picture of the sunrise. I didn't have any sweater, but just a summer shirt so I chanced to take a tride down the road a piece to snap a few pictures as the sun rose.
The upper limb of the sun was at ground level when I composed the shot. A silo was standing off in the distance and I lined it up to partially eclipse the sun. Strangely, I had to keep moving sideways to keep it in line. I then realized that the sun does not come up straight out of the horizon, but at an angle, which was more acute than farther south, for I never noticed it before.
Anyway, we had plans for the day and after breakfast we headed for Eau Claire. We had never met Simon Landis before, not that we remembered. I had his address and phone number but that was the only lead, which was enough anyway.
As soon as we came to the outskirts of Eau Claire I called his number. No answer. We'd have to go to his address.
The address turned out to be an apartment complex. Now what? We were still a couple blocks away and we saw a man standing behind a car with the trunk open. Warren exclaimed, "That's Sim Landis." Yeah, right, I thought; he had never met him either. We pulled into the parking lot, wondering what to do next. I casually walked over to the man, who was apparently taking inventory of some items in the trunk of his car. To make conversation, I said, "So you're the Fuller brush man."
"No", he replied, "I'm just taking inventory of these brooms and things. I'm trying to get rid of them." I studied him for a minute and for a fleeting instant compared him to my uncle Paul Landis, Lydia's husband. No real resemblance. I asked him how much he wanted for, say, that pushbroom there. "Oh, I sell that for $14 but you can have it for $11."
Warren then walked up and he said, "I have an asphalt business, I could use all those brooms." The man's face brightened. But then we realized that the brooms just would not fit in our Volkwagen, which was loaded to the gills with all we had acquired on the trip.
Not to lose a sale, the man said, "Well, I could send them to you. Who do you know around here?"
Warren spoke up, "Well, we came to look up a man by the name of Sim Landis."
The man's eyes widened. "Sim Landis," he exclaimed, "why, that's me! I'm Sim Landis." He was absolutely ecstatic. And in short order he threw his carefully laid out inventory unceremoniously back into the trunk and slammed the lid. "Come along, I'll show you around town."
We found he was 83 years old. He was very spry for a man his age, still the salesman he was for years. He enquired after our families, many of whom he knew. We told him his sister-in-law suggested we visit.
He was so enthused about our visit he had to tell all his friends we visited and how we met. Our itinerary took us to his favorite restaurant in town where he ate breakfast every morning, Howard Johnsons. He took us to the church he attended, and to the nursing home where his wife stayed as an invalid, whom he visited every day. And he showed us his apartment in the complex where he had first arrived. And then we ate at McDonald's as he treated us to loaves and fishes--fish sandwiches, french fries, and cokes.
The fame of our visit preceded us home. He just had to tell Aunt Lydia how we met and a number of other relatives heard about it from there.
Meanwhile, on our way home, as soon as we crossed the Pennsylvania line, I came down with the worst cold which a frost-bitten morning in Wisconsin could dish out to a guy who wanted to chance the weather in his shirt sleeves. It took over two weeks to recover.
So, last year's visit was a get-reacquainted visit. Sim Landis died in September 1990 at the age of 92. His wife preceded him by a couple of years.
This year there was just too much work to go for a long haul in little time. There'll be other occasions. Florence called on Thankgiving Day while we were fressing on turkey and filling. She invited us to come out anytime. Probably not this year anymore.
People often wonder what to call the breaded mixture that is usually served with the turkey. I found out that it is called dressing when it is passed around the first time, filling the second time around, and stuffing, the third.
You mentioned (as a teacher) about parents wanting their own way. I received a letter from another teacher penfriend who wrote:
"Have you ever received a letter from a walking, talking medical treatment before? Last week a certified medical doctor declared me to be a healing treatment for a certain 5th grade girl. She was one of nine students who was transferred from my homeroom to the new 5th grade teacher's class. The new teacher was added to relieve overcrowding. Like most of the other students involved, she didn't want to go. Her mother took her to a doctor who wrote a prescription which said the girl would be better off emotionally if she were transferred back to my room. The parents of the student who transferred out of my room did most complaining and protesting. Many come from divorced homes and the mothers wanted their kids to have a male image."
Anyway, I'm glad for your letters. They give me the impetus to try to write eloquently. Reading helps. Right now I'm reading The Power Game by Hedrick Smith. I also read much of his book, The Russians and he has written another called The New Russians. Perhaps you know, he worked as a correspondent for The New York Times. His writing is a bit heavy for me, but it is quite interesting, especially when he writes a human interest anecdote.
Thanksgiving Day came and went and I'm stuffed. I had two turkey dinners in one day. I ate a bit frugally at the first meal at my brother's house, then in the evening I went to visit my cousins in Lancaster and Lebanon counties for the weekend. My cousin Kathryn and her husband, who own a pretzel bakery, drove a Mennonite family to Florida to pck up a flight from Miami to Paraguay so they weren't home yet on Thanksgiving Day for the big feed. So their kids made the supper. Well, they weren't kids. The oldest is 26 years old and the youngest is 19; three boys and three girls. But that doesn't stop them from being kids once in awhile, especially the boys--young me, I should say.
Yes, we had the traditional turkey, with filling, corn, mashed potatoes, and an assortment of other delectables. And a couple of the fellows just had smother their plateful of vittles with ketchup.
I often stay with my cousin Warren at his home in a small rural community of Heidelberg, PA, and I visit Martin's Pretzel Bakery in Akron, Lancaster County quite often, owned and operated by Clarence and Kathryn Martin. Kathryn is Warren's sister. There is also a Martin's Pretzel Bakery in upstate New York owned by Lloyd and Maryann Martin. Kathryn and Maryann are sisters. Clarence and Lloyd are brothers.
Warren and I sometimes make plans to travel over the holidays and we were tossing around the idea of visiting his sister and family in Memphis, Missouri, a brother in Woodstock, Illinois, or another sister near Watertown, New York on this Thanksgiving weekend. But those plans didn't work out.
Last year we did make the trip over Thanksgiving. Neither of us can afford to take off on vacations. I need to pinch my pennies and Warren runs an asphalt paving business which keeps him busy, even into the Fall. The reason we travel so well together is because I love to drive and he and I like to visit his folks. They're my double cousins; their father and my father were brothers, their mother and my mother were sisters. Their mother died in 1951.
The Midwest is a great place to travel. The interstates take you pretty quickly to any location, except that we get off the interstate to travel about 200 miles into Keokuk, Iowa; then a couple miles to the Missouri border, and another 50 miles or so to Memphis. We've made the trip several times.
We travel through Pennsylvania, West Virginia, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Iowa and Missouri; and last year we went to Wisconsin, all in five days.
I like to visit with them. They are Mennonite people who exist as a practical society.
I enjoyed watching the children at the Thanksgiving dinner we had at cousin Florence's in Missouri. She has 24 grandchildren, and many of them were at the get-together. Afterwards, the women cleaned up the kitchen and the men retired to the sitting room where we spent all evening conversing with each other. No radio, no TV. It is the kind of rapport I like to have with people, without distractions.
The only minor distractions were the children who were playing nearby. But it was tolerated, for children must be children while they're children. Siblings and their cousins were playing together in harmony, most of the time. One of the boys, five-year-old Calvin, one of the oldest children there, was particularly rambunctious and running around with his playmates. He is hyperactive and once in awhile his father would hold him still just to quiet him down. One time he ran by me, patted me on the knee and muttered something I didn't catch, but Warren burst into laughter. "What's so funny?" I asked. Calvin had said I was a "nice old man." I may seem old to him but the gesture gave me a sense of camaraderie with these kids.
We spent only one day in Missouri and then we headed for Wisconsin, traveling all night. I like to travel at night. Where the clear sky is darkest the whole universe is awash with stars. I even spotted a couple of meteorites along the way.
By early morning we arrived at Colby, Wisconsin to visit another one of Florence's sons and his family. He has three children who were a little timid with us, until Warren spoke to them in Pennsylvania Dutch. Then they were more open to us.
About 8 years previously, Warren and I had visited another family, the Aaron Hoovers, who also live in Colby, Wisconsin. I called up Aaron to let him know we were in the area again. He insisted we come on over, so Warren and I had a pleasant afternoon visit which turned into an overnight stayover.
Aaron's family had multiplied from two children to six. The baby boy we saw eight years ago was an energetic eight-year-old who could do the work of a boy almost twice his age. They too speak Pennsylvania Dutch. My own parents speak the language but they never taught us so I'm not fluent in the language.
At milking time the children helped their father with the chores, 11-year-old Mabel, eight-year-old Martin, six-year-old Harvey, four-year-old Aaron. Even two-year-old Martha tagged along. They were busy gathering around Warren as they talked to him in mostly Dutch and I felt a little left out...until little Aaron came over to me and said, "Wid du de pony tsagooka? (Do you want to look at the pony?). I understood that, and he led me over to the horse stall where a horse stood. He made some other comments which I didn't understand. The other children came over and started talking to me. When they realized I didn't understand much of what they said, they all switched to English and, spotting my camera, insisted I take pictures--of a bale of hay, a colt, the horse, the heifers, and they themselves hammed it up in front of the camera. Martin was keeping count of the pictures I was taking, since he learned that I would send the pictures to them after they were developed. Earlier, they had shown me a photo album where I spotted pictures I took there eight years before.
They were a delight to entertain. They were easily amused. They don't have a radio or TV to play havoc on their fertile minds. They may be in a relatively closed society, but they weren't missing anything important. Their education is limited to an eighth grade education but that doesn't often stop them from learning a trade which is advanced beyond that. They learn from their parents, aunts, uncles, and cousins.
In addition to the farmwork, Aaron Sr. makes maple syrup in the Spring from the many maple trees on his farm, which he cooks down to 2% thicker than standard maple syrup, he said. On our first visit (where I had met him for the first time), and Warren the second time--Warren had his two sons, Steve and Greg, along at that time) he had given Warren and me each a pint of maple syrup "because we enjoyed your visit so much." They refused any monetary compensation for our visit. "We're just glad to have you stop in," they said.
Some more has come to mind about that memorable first trip eight years before:
It was my first trip to Illinois. We visited my cousin John (Warren's brother). We then intended to head southwest to Missouri to visit his sister Florence. It was August and the weather was balmy. I dressed in summer clothes and we were off on a nice long trip. Steve and Greg were also along. (In case you were wondering, Warren raised his two sons alone since they were three or four years old.)
Before I left, our Aunt Lydia (my Dad's sister) asked if we would look up Sim (Simon) Landis, her brother-in-law, while we were in Illinois. They live in Eau Claire, Wisconsin. Woodstock, Illinois is only a few miles from Wisconsin.
So, while in Woodstock, we were ready to retire for the night, Warren and I made plans for the next leg of the trip for the next day: to Missouri or to Wisconsin? We found that Eau Claire was not just over the border, but almost 200 miles away. It was either Missouri or Wisconsin; not both places.
The decision was made when Warren mentioned that he knew a family somewhere halfway to Eau Claire. They are Wenger Mennonites, originally from Lancaster County, PA. They are very hospitable and would take us in overnight if we needed a place to stay. If they couldn't accommodate us, another member of the community could.
So we left for Wisconsin the next day. It took a number of hours to drive to Colby, Wisconsin, and I studied the countryside as we traveled along, noting how straight the roads ran. When we came into town, Warren called up Aaron Hoover. Although Aaron had met him for the first time the year before, he knew Warren's voice right away. He told us how to find his farm.
Aaron and Edna had two children, Mabel and Martin. He showed us the maple syrup cookers. We visited his brothers and sisters, and parents, riding in our car, since they drive only horse and buggy. Steve and Greg, ages 10 and 12, had a great time. In the evening of the second day, they wanted a chance to ride in a horse-pulled wagon. We got our chance when a neighboring farmer needed help unloading a couple wagon loads of hay bales. He had heard about all the potential help visiting at the Hoover place.
Aaron hooked up the horse and wagon and we were off. He told me to sit up beside him. As we traveled, he demonstrated his "cruise control". As the horse trotted along, he gave a barely perceptible click with his tongue and the horse trotted faster; another click and the horse went faster yet. Another one, and faster yet. Then a slight tug on the reins and the horse slowed down again.
Because the horse often travels that way, Aaron didn't need to pull on the reins to turn right, and left into the lane, "automatic drive". If he had wanted to go straight he would tug gently on the opposite side rein to keep the horse from turning. The horse was cheaper to run than a car, he said. He eats what the cows eat and the cost of shoes is about $25 a year. I was convinced of the practical nature of their lifestyle.
The neighbor had a number of young children who were too young to carry bales of hay, but with the four of us, plus the neighbor himself, we had the couple of wagonloads done in short order. The evening being so clear, nice and cool, the Mrs. brought out the potato salad, pretzels, potato chips, and ice cream, and thereby made new friends. We all enjoyed it immensely.
We stayed the night again, and the next morning there was frost on the ground. It was 30 degrees, which was awful early in the season. I had my camera along and I just needed to get a picture of the sunrise. I didn't have any sweater, but just a summer shirt so I chanced to take a tride down the road a piece to snap a few pictures as the sun rose.
The upper limb of the sun was at ground level when I composed the shot. A silo was standing off in the distance and I lined it up to partially eclipse the sun. Strangely, I had to keep moving sideways to keep it in line. I then realized that the sun does not come up straight out of the horizon, but at an angle, which was more acute than farther south, for I never noticed it before.
Anyway, we had plans for the day and after breakfast we headed for Eau Claire. We had never met Simon Landis before, not that we remembered. I had his address and phone number but that was the only lead, which was enough anyway.
As soon as we came to the outskirts of Eau Claire I called his number. No answer. We'd have to go to his address.
The address turned out to be an apartment complex. Now what? We were still a couple blocks away and we saw a man standing behind a car with the trunk open. Warren exclaimed, "That's Sim Landis." Yeah, right, I thought; he had never met him either. We pulled into the parking lot, wondering what to do next. I casually walked over to the man, who was apparently taking inventory of some items in the trunk of his car. To make conversation, I said, "So you're the Fuller brush man."
"No", he replied, "I'm just taking inventory of these brooms and things. I'm trying to get rid of them." I studied him for a minute and for a fleeting instant compared him to my uncle Paul Landis, Lydia's husband. No real resemblance. I asked him how much he wanted for, say, that pushbroom there. "Oh, I sell that for $14 but you can have it for $11."
Warren then walked up and he said, "I have an asphalt business, I could use all those brooms." The man's face brightened. But then we realized that the brooms just would not fit in our Volkwagen, which was loaded to the gills with all we had acquired on the trip.
Not to lose a sale, the man said, "Well, I could send them to you. Who do you know around here?"
Warren spoke up, "Well, we came to look up a man by the name of Sim Landis."
The man's eyes widened. "Sim Landis," he exclaimed, "why, that's me! I'm Sim Landis." He was absolutely ecstatic. And in short order he threw his carefully laid out inventory unceremoniously back into the trunk and slammed the lid. "Come along, I'll show you around town."
We found he was 83 years old. He was very spry for a man his age, still the salesman he was for years. He enquired after our families, many of whom he knew. We told him his sister-in-law suggested we visit.
He was so enthused about our visit he had to tell all his friends we visited and how we met. Our itinerary took us to his favorite restaurant in town where he ate breakfast every morning, Howard Johnsons. He took us to the church he attended, and to the nursing home where his wife stayed as an invalid, whom he visited every day. And he showed us his apartment in the complex where he had first arrived. And then we ate at McDonald's as he treated us to loaves and fishes--fish sandwiches, french fries, and cokes.
The fame of our visit preceded us home. He just had to tell Aunt Lydia how we met and a number of other relatives heard about it from there.
Meanwhile, on our way home, as soon as we crossed the Pennsylvania line, I came down with the worst cold which a frost-bitten morning in Wisconsin could dish out to a guy who wanted to chance the weather in his shirt sleeves. It took over two weeks to recover.
So, last year's visit was a get-reacquainted visit. Sim Landis died in September 1990 at the age of 92. His wife preceded him by a couple of years.
This year there was just too much work to go for a long haul in little time. There'll be other occasions. Florence called on Thankgiving Day while we were fressing on turkey and filling. She invited us to come out anytime. Probably not this year anymore.
People often wonder what to call the breaded mixture that is usually served with the turkey. I found out that it is called dressing when it is passed around the first time, filling the second time around, and stuffing, the third.
You mentioned (as a teacher) about parents wanting their own way. I received a letter from another teacher penfriend who wrote:
"Have you ever received a letter from a walking, talking medical treatment before? Last week a certified medical doctor declared me to be a healing treatment for a certain 5th grade girl. She was one of nine students who was transferred from my homeroom to the new 5th grade teacher's class. The new teacher was added to relieve overcrowding. Like most of the other students involved, she didn't want to go. Her mother took her to a doctor who wrote a prescription which said the girl would be better off emotionally if she were transferred back to my room. The parents of the student who transferred out of my room did most complaining and protesting. Many come from divorced homes and the mothers wanted their kids to have a male image."
Anyway, I'm glad for your letters. They give me the impetus to try to write eloquently. Reading helps. Right now I'm reading The Power Game by Hedrick Smith. I also read much of his book, The Russians and he has written another called The New Russians. Perhaps you know, he worked as a correspondent for The New York Times. His writing is a bit heavy for me, but it is quite interesting, especially when he writes a human interest anecdote.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Hospital...again!
OK, so I'm on kidney hemodialysis. It is now August 29 and I've been on it since April 2004, getting dialysis treatments three times a week, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, year in and year out, on holidays and all, except Christmas and Thanksgiving when they juggle the schedule around a bit. I went through two fistulas and I just had a third one installed last Tuesday. The two failed, and I'm currently being treated with a set of catheters placed in my chest. It's not too bad. It's not convenient when you want to take a shower but you just have to work around it.
On Tuesday, August 19, I was scheduled to have a fistula placed again. Since I already went through two of them, I knew what to expect. I would probably be on conscious sedation and half asleep through the whole procedure. The procedure is to connect an artery and a vein which will eventually develop into a arterial vein where blood will be able to be cleansed by running through a dialyzer, taking out the impurities, toxins...and vitamins. Take your vitamins or meds after dialysis.
I was put into short term care since I would be going home the same day, or the day after. I undressed and dressed into a gown, with a heating unit no less! The nurse took my medical history, from the time I was born, in my case. During the questioning we heard a baby cry. The nurse said she didn't see any baby in the rooms. To be humorous I suggested that one could have been born while waiting.
Since I was a little cool she hooked an air hose to the gown and a stream of warm air made it all nice and cozy. It would be cold in the operating room, she said.
She took me to the holding room, and on the way we saw the source of the cries. It was a woman who was perhaps frightened at the suspense of waiting. Others around her were trying to console her. It reminded me of my own fright years and years ago, but I was only three years old at the time. This woman was at least 60.
I waited in the holding room until it was my turn. I still get a rather sinister feeling whenever I enter an operating room, and even the holding area threatened to intimidate me. But I'm a big boy now and I intellectually rose above it, if not entirely emotionally.
A nurse came around and, in the quietness I suggested that they should have music playing. Mozart would be nice. She thought it was a good idea; it would relieve any anxiety patients might have.
There were a couple of other patients in the room and they gradually disappeared as their turn came up. Then it was my turn.
I was wheeled into the operating room proper where it was decidedly cold. They had given me warm blankets so I was cozy enough, but I remembered from my government inspector days that bacteria slows down at 40 degrees. It wasn't 40 degrees but I was glad for the blankets.
It's amazing what medicine can do these days. I had an IV placed on the back of my hand earlier which would administer the anesthesia. When I lay on the table an anesthesiologist administered the medicine and the next thing I knew I was back in recovery. I don't even remember falling asleep, if I even was asleep.
I had a bandage wrapped around my left arm, a little above the elbow and I was told to keep my arm straight for awhile. They gave me a pillow for my arm to rest on.
Since this was a "creation" operation (new fistula), the doctor ordered an overnight stay. I was given an antibiotic, as is the usual procedure, and I waited for everything to heal. And tomorrow the hospital would give me a dialysis treatment.
The hospital has a new procedure now for ordering lunch. You are given a menu and you dial a number and order off of it, and the food comes to your room in about a half hour.
The second meal I ordered was lasagna. I was told they couldn't give it to me. I'm on a renal diet and the tomato sauce is not good for me--too much potassium.
Potassium is one of the elements that can increase to dangerous levels because of the lack of proper kidney function. Phosphorus is another element that can be harmful, and processed foods are loaded with it. There are not a whole lot of options in a renal diet. There's enough, but the real good tasting stuff is off-limits. Or you can take binders to keep the phosphorus from assimilating into your system.
I settled for tilapia. I like fish. A couple vegetables, a cup of fruit, a dessert, a cold drink, and I was all set. Some hospital food is not bad at all.
I was there overnight, and I thought I would be scheduled for an early dialysis, but I ended up waiting until 2 p.m., which did not sit well with me at all. But I had not choice but to wait. Meanwhile they gave me IV antibiotics.
In the course of time I saw that part of my body was turning red, bright red. It was mainly on my upper legs and on my lower back. This happened a few months before and I had an awful time with skin peeling at the time. This looked like the same thing, but this time I spotted it earlier. The nurse checked it out and found the extent of it. I suggested it could be the antibiotics they gave me. So now I put another allergic reaction on the list. They didn't give me any more, and she told the doctor. He said it shouldn't be the antibiotics because it didn't happen before. She told him it did happen before. She listed it as an allergen.
Finally I was wheelchaired down to the dialysis room. I sat in a recliner chair and waited for my treatment. There were other patients whom I had seen before at the dialysis center. I was just another one of them.
They hooked up the lines after administering a dose of blood thinner to avoid clotting, and started the machine, and I was set for the duration.
Because of all the waiting around I was not in a very good mood. On top of it, a nurse started teasing me about the length of time I was going to be in treatment. It was not a professional approach to nurse/patient care and I was not amused. Apparently, she has a habit that way so when I made a remark in return, the others knew she had met her match.
When you're waiting four hours for treatment to be completed, you need to have something to do, unless you just sit there watching what is going on, or sleeping, or watching television. I had all three options going.
I had asked a friend, Mel to take me to the hospital but I didn't know how long I would be there. Since I was there overnight I called him up and asked he could pick me up. He was going to pick his brother up at six but he said he could be at the hospital at 5:45. I noted how much time I had left and started thinking about the logistics of being done on time, and not having Mel wait too long, and letting him pick his brother up on time. Sometimes I just need to take the bull by the horns and create my own reality. I asked the technician if she could let me off early. I could sign papers. She said they don't sign papers here, they would have to call the doctor. I was not about ready to have bureacracy take over so I just waved my hand in resignation and hoped for the best.
She took me off a little early, bless her. She also told my nurse that I wanted to leave as soon as dialysis was finished. So it was all ready except...the IV loc that was still in my hand had to be removed by the nurse. Rats!
I called Mel, who was waiting outside, and told him there would be a delay. He was gracious enough to wait.
It all worked out OK at my side of things. Mel took me home and it was well after 6 p.m. but at least I had a ride home. I wasn't allowed to drive for 24-48 hours because of the anesthesia I was given.
But I had an appointment with a doctor at OSU in Columbus on Thursday so I drove the 7o miles, had the interview, and came home again without incident. It was close though. I didn' feel good part of the time. Medicine takes it time to wear off, and it can be tricky driving. I felt comfortable enough behind the wheel, but when I got out and walked a short distance it was not the best feeling. When I got a bite to eat at Wendy's I felt a little better.
I know I have a sense of adventure in dealing with a lot of this but it can get old sometimes when you have to go through the paces every couple of days. Dialysis is a growing necessity for a lot of people these days. It has increased exponentially over the past decade and there are dialysis centers all over the country, plus the world. Kidney disease is a symptom of many factors in the scheme of things. Check it out here.
I don't know if you cared to read all this mundane stuff but this is just an inkling of what hospital patients have to deal with, and dialysis patients in particular.
On Tuesday, August 19, I was scheduled to have a fistula placed again. Since I already went through two of them, I knew what to expect. I would probably be on conscious sedation and half asleep through the whole procedure. The procedure is to connect an artery and a vein which will eventually develop into a arterial vein where blood will be able to be cleansed by running through a dialyzer, taking out the impurities, toxins...and vitamins. Take your vitamins or meds after dialysis.
I was put into short term care since I would be going home the same day, or the day after. I undressed and dressed into a gown, with a heating unit no less! The nurse took my medical history, from the time I was born, in my case. During the questioning we heard a baby cry. The nurse said she didn't see any baby in the rooms. To be humorous I suggested that one could have been born while waiting.
Since I was a little cool she hooked an air hose to the gown and a stream of warm air made it all nice and cozy. It would be cold in the operating room, she said.
She took me to the holding room, and on the way we saw the source of the cries. It was a woman who was perhaps frightened at the suspense of waiting. Others around her were trying to console her. It reminded me of my own fright years and years ago, but I was only three years old at the time. This woman was at least 60.
I waited in the holding room until it was my turn. I still get a rather sinister feeling whenever I enter an operating room, and even the holding area threatened to intimidate me. But I'm a big boy now and I intellectually rose above it, if not entirely emotionally.
A nurse came around and, in the quietness I suggested that they should have music playing. Mozart would be nice. She thought it was a good idea; it would relieve any anxiety patients might have.
There were a couple of other patients in the room and they gradually disappeared as their turn came up. Then it was my turn.
I was wheeled into the operating room proper where it was decidedly cold. They had given me warm blankets so I was cozy enough, but I remembered from my government inspector days that bacteria slows down at 40 degrees. It wasn't 40 degrees but I was glad for the blankets.
It's amazing what medicine can do these days. I had an IV placed on the back of my hand earlier which would administer the anesthesia. When I lay on the table an anesthesiologist administered the medicine and the next thing I knew I was back in recovery. I don't even remember falling asleep, if I even was asleep.
I had a bandage wrapped around my left arm, a little above the elbow and I was told to keep my arm straight for awhile. They gave me a pillow for my arm to rest on.
Since this was a "creation" operation (new fistula), the doctor ordered an overnight stay. I was given an antibiotic, as is the usual procedure, and I waited for everything to heal. And tomorrow the hospital would give me a dialysis treatment.
The hospital has a new procedure now for ordering lunch. You are given a menu and you dial a number and order off of it, and the food comes to your room in about a half hour.
The second meal I ordered was lasagna. I was told they couldn't give it to me. I'm on a renal diet and the tomato sauce is not good for me--too much potassium.
Potassium is one of the elements that can increase to dangerous levels because of the lack of proper kidney function. Phosphorus is another element that can be harmful, and processed foods are loaded with it. There are not a whole lot of options in a renal diet. There's enough, but the real good tasting stuff is off-limits. Or you can take binders to keep the phosphorus from assimilating into your system.
I settled for tilapia. I like fish. A couple vegetables, a cup of fruit, a dessert, a cold drink, and I was all set. Some hospital food is not bad at all.
I was there overnight, and I thought I would be scheduled for an early dialysis, but I ended up waiting until 2 p.m., which did not sit well with me at all. But I had not choice but to wait. Meanwhile they gave me IV antibiotics.
In the course of time I saw that part of my body was turning red, bright red. It was mainly on my upper legs and on my lower back. This happened a few months before and I had an awful time with skin peeling at the time. This looked like the same thing, but this time I spotted it earlier. The nurse checked it out and found the extent of it. I suggested it could be the antibiotics they gave me. So now I put another allergic reaction on the list. They didn't give me any more, and she told the doctor. He said it shouldn't be the antibiotics because it didn't happen before. She told him it did happen before. She listed it as an allergen.
Finally I was wheelchaired down to the dialysis room. I sat in a recliner chair and waited for my treatment. There were other patients whom I had seen before at the dialysis center. I was just another one of them.
They hooked up the lines after administering a dose of blood thinner to avoid clotting, and started the machine, and I was set for the duration.
Because of all the waiting around I was not in a very good mood. On top of it, a nurse started teasing me about the length of time I was going to be in treatment. It was not a professional approach to nurse/patient care and I was not amused. Apparently, she has a habit that way so when I made a remark in return, the others knew she had met her match.
When you're waiting four hours for treatment to be completed, you need to have something to do, unless you just sit there watching what is going on, or sleeping, or watching television. I had all three options going.
I had asked a friend, Mel to take me to the hospital but I didn't know how long I would be there. Since I was there overnight I called him up and asked he could pick me up. He was going to pick his brother up at six but he said he could be at the hospital at 5:45. I noted how much time I had left and started thinking about the logistics of being done on time, and not having Mel wait too long, and letting him pick his brother up on time. Sometimes I just need to take the bull by the horns and create my own reality. I asked the technician if she could let me off early. I could sign papers. She said they don't sign papers here, they would have to call the doctor. I was not about ready to have bureacracy take over so I just waved my hand in resignation and hoped for the best.
She took me off a little early, bless her. She also told my nurse that I wanted to leave as soon as dialysis was finished. So it was all ready except...the IV loc that was still in my hand had to be removed by the nurse. Rats!
I called Mel, who was waiting outside, and told him there would be a delay. He was gracious enough to wait.
It all worked out OK at my side of things. Mel took me home and it was well after 6 p.m. but at least I had a ride home. I wasn't allowed to drive for 24-48 hours because of the anesthesia I was given.
But I had an appointment with a doctor at OSU in Columbus on Thursday so I drove the 7o miles, had the interview, and came home again without incident. It was close though. I didn' feel good part of the time. Medicine takes it time to wear off, and it can be tricky driving. I felt comfortable enough behind the wheel, but when I got out and walked a short distance it was not the best feeling. When I got a bite to eat at Wendy's I felt a little better.
I know I have a sense of adventure in dealing with a lot of this but it can get old sometimes when you have to go through the paces every couple of days. Dialysis is a growing necessity for a lot of people these days. It has increased exponentially over the past decade and there are dialysis centers all over the country, plus the world. Kidney disease is a symptom of many factors in the scheme of things. Check it out here.
I don't know if you cared to read all this mundane stuff but this is just an inkling of what hospital patients have to deal with, and dialysis patients in particular.
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